Seeing as though I couldn't be bothered to keep the "10 Things Tuesday" lists running for more than three seconds, I thought I'd take another stab at an intermittent feature here on Had to Move. Of course, lacking any inclination toward creativity, I'm going to rip it (or at least its format) off from my bitchslap alma mater, The Black Table. When BT closed up shop a couple years ago, so went with it the popular Blacklist feature, wherein contributors would annoint an event, thing, person, or whatsisthingy with a letter grade. I wrote plenty of them. I wrote about selling air, I wrote about clothes, I wrote about advertising, I wrote about the demise of social security. And seeing as though I now write about very little, I'm going to revive the ol' Blacklist right here on my site, although I can't call it that lest I infringe on some kind of copyright law. Sorry Gillin, hope you don't mind. Without further ado, then, I give you today's rating .

Receiving a Dozen Roses

The last time I received a dozen roses, I was 16. The guy who sent them was Douggie Folkens, who was a year or so younger than me and of little interest to me romantically. Nevertheless, I appreciated the gesture.

This week, 15 years later, I received a dozen roses again. They're from an ex of mine with whom I have nevertheless remained close, maybe too much so. He had congenially subbed in as my "fake boyfriend" for months and months, our lack of ire and mutual affection for each other, (despite our breakup), making him the go-to default for nights of TV watching, take-out eating, and all that other crap actual boyfriends are supposed to do.

They were supposed to be sent last week on Valentine's Day, but apparently, the arthritic mule that brought them straight from Colombia took a wrong turn somewhere near Akron and they instead arrived six days late. They're hanging valiantly onto life but looking a tad wilty and parched. Of course, this is a fitting metaphor for the romantic part of our relationship since it was just last night, five days post-V-day, that I told him I thought we needed to close the book on our more or less chaste late-night cuddles.

The buds that are hanging on still smell lovely, and to look at them reminds me that someone cares about me and wants me to be happy. But given their (and apparently, my) lousy timing, and my subsequent feelings of nostalgia and fondness for my 277th romantic relationship to meet its expiry, they make me a twinge sad. Receiving a Dozen Roses -- C.